I'll Wait for You
by samptra
Summary: Captain John Watson got more then he bargained for when he accepted the unusual offer to room with an intriguing man.
1. Changes, Meetings, and Flatmates

Disclaimer: Don't own, just borrowing the characters and taking a little liberty with them, all trademarks belong to the BBC.

Pairing: John Watson x Sherlock Holmes

Genre: Romance, fluff, get-together, OOC

Story: Captain John Watson got more then he bargained for when he accepted the unusual offer to room with an intriguing man.

Author's Note: Well here it is! My very first foyer into the world of BBC Sherlock, I love this show. Big Sherlock fan to start with really, but this one no idea what sort of spoke to me here. I wanted originally to write one shot…but that fell through. My favourite is Gundam Wing, but every so often I take a crack at another fandom. Expand my horizon's so to speak. This one takes place before between season one and season two. I have altered the characters OOC for sure, and rearranged the story to my liking (author's licence). I can't quite bring myself to tackle poor John post Reichenbach but maybe…for now enjoy!

I'll Wait for You

Case 1 – Changes, Meetings, and Flatmates

"_Ready?" He asked softly into the stillness of the night, the other man shook uncontrollably. He was young green, all piss and vinegar until it came to the sharp end. His young face was pale and terrified under his dark face paint, the chubbiness of youth still about his countenance. Captain John Watson sighed, feeling every single one of his thirty-four years. He was getting to old, or they where getting to young. "You remember your training and you will be fine," he said softly eyes panning the dark landscape he could hear the shift of bodies to his right and left. Men under his command. It was time. _

_He gesture to his flank and they crept out over the wall and into the night. Minutes later the battle was upon them and bullets began to fly. _

Blue eyes opened suddenly, he made no sound as the gunfire rattling around in his head began to quite. They where replaced by the sounds of the barracks around him, the noise of men real and alive. They had put him in the officers bachelors quarters, not his favourite place to be. He sat up glancing at his watch, dimly reflecting the time, 5 am. He stood stretching, others beginning to rustle to life around him. Military training was hard to break, up at 5 and time to go. "Oi, John you up for a go?" A voice whispered to his left, he turned to look at Captain Ron Heron, a comrade, grinning. He didn't need to be in hospital until 7, he had time. "Give you a run for your money mate…" laughing they hurriedly pulled on PT cloths.

The run was invigorating, and sparing with Ron had been well worth it, now showered and dressed. He headed for the base hospital, not his first choice but after years of faithful service but beggars could not be choosers. "Morning Doctor," a voice called, a nurse…John hadn't learned all their names yet. He simply smiled and waved, shrugging out of his jacket and beret he pulled on his lab coat. He moved quietly into the main room, "Morning Linda," he spoke called to the ward nurse, she grinned. "You have an easy day of rounds, couple of self-inflected nights out, and a in grown toenail."

Linda watched the new doctor interested despite herself, she may have been past middle age but she wasn't dead. Doctor John Watson was any women's dream. The lab coat and fatigues could not conceal the bulge of muscle. She had seem him out running a couple of times, shame he wasn't all that tall about five nine. He was compact, stocky, and Linda would not half mind taking him for a ride. She shook her head pulled from her little fantasy as the phone rang, she answered eyes never leaving the new doctor bend over a patient. She listened idly to the voice at the other end, "Ok I'll let him know…" she hung up glancing over, "Dr. Wilde would like to see you John." Groaning the man gave Linda a look that spoke volumes, Wilde was the camp physiatrist. "Alright I'll be back in a couple minutes."

John steeled himself as he rode the elevator up to the third floor, he hated it up there. It was where all the severe PTSD cases resided, and John hated everyone of them… because he knew he was a hair's breath away from being one of them. Taking one last breath he knocked on the office door. "Ahh John," she looked up from her desk, "Morning." He said taking his usual seat on the couch facing her, "How you feeling?" he shrugged picking lint of his combats, Wilde sighed, "You ever going to open up to me John?" she asked pointedly. They had been playing this game since he'd returned from combat three months ago, and began this mandatory therapy. All returning combat soldiers had too. He had served more tours then he cared to count, the last one though, that last one had made him decided that perhaps it was time to retire from full time service. Truth be told he couldn't give it up completely, he was a junkie like that. The adventure the excitement, he couldn't just let it all go. Not that he would speak these thoughts allowed, he wasn't a pour out your emotions type of guy.

She was scribbling in her notes, John knew what his file read. Career military, been in the service since he joined at 16. It had been an escape from a troubled home life, a family he had never really been close too. The British military had paid his way through medical school, and in turn he'd put down his life for Queen and country. "How does it feel to be a doctor again?" she changed tactics then, or at least tried to "I never stopped if I recall…" She raised an eyebrow at him, "No? You've been doing something for the last five years and it hasn't been medical." John smiled a little half smile, maybe a little smugly. Wilde had clearance, but not high enough to see those files, what he'd been doing the last five years had never happened. Period. It bugged the hell out of her she had no idea, and he found that perversely amusing.

"It's not bad," he shrugged again, she crossed her arms sighing. "Have you been seeing anyone? Outside relationships?" it was John's turn to sigh, she damn well knew he hadn't been off base. "Look, we've been doing this dance a while now. I can't keep making you come here and I have no grounds to do so. So I'm going to give you a little advice and wish you all the best John. Get out, go meet people do things, and instead of telling people your feelings why not write them down. Post them on the net anonymously, start a blog." He nodded more to be polite then anything. They shook hands then, and that was it; he left.

John walked briskly back to the elevator, she was maybe right, maybe he did need to go out. It would be nice to get back into London. As for writing about himself, he snorted. Now that he was no longer full-time military. Life was utterly dull.

-#-#-#-

"John!" the jubilant voice called out waving a wild arm, the solider returned the wave. A mate of his from medical school, he had called up Matt on a whim asking if he wanted to go for a pint, catch up on old times. Get out of his head a little. "Matt, good to see you," they shook hands in a brotherly fashion. Heading into the pub, John listened amused as the other man's mouth running a mile of minute. "Yeah a got a job with the corner's office actually, working with the police it's pretty interesting get to go to crime scenes and all that." Same old Matt, never without something to say. He prattled on as they got a drink settling in a booth. "What about you man? You still full-time?" The blonde shook his head, "Nope, still in but part-time bases, thinking about getting back into hospital work…" he mused, more too himself. Matt nodded, "I know a clinic looking for a GP, it's not glamorous but it's a job."

They chatted a while longer, John found himself beginning to relax. It was nice having someone talk to him without asking where his head was at. Everyone treated him with kid gloves, that large five year blank spot made everyone wonder about him.

Just then a beep sounded, Matt sighed looking at the message "Shit, work calling." John nodded in understanding, "Thanks for the pint," he said tipping the rest of his glass back, as Matt stood. The other man paused, "Hey you want to come? My assistant is off tonight I could use another set of medical eyes…you'd be more up on trauma then me." John was taken aback, a crime scene? The curiosity got the better of him, "Why not?"

Lights flashed, in the wet London night, as the pair approached bright yellow tape quarantining the scene. Matt dressed in his coveralls waved to the constable watching the perimeter. "New assistant?" He called and Matt simply moved them on, John glanced around it was rather exciting to be at a homicide. He followed his friend into the abandoned house, the body on the third floor, forcing them to carry the gurney up. Clattering onto the landing they approached the door, hearing voices on the other side. Annoyed sounding voices. Entering the room John glanced around curiously, a man in a slightly rumpled suit stood flanked by angry looking man and women. A fourth figure was striding around the body, coat flapping behind him. It was that fourth figure that drew John's attention though. He was tall, slender, and pale, dressed impeccably in an expensive looking suit he had a blue knit scarf twisted artfully around his neck no doubt to ward off the evening chill. Smart man, John wished he'd worn more then jeans, jumper, and rather thin coat. He was still used to the heat of the desert.

"Boring Lestrade," the man spoke, a deep rich timbre to his voice and John found himself listening to without even thinking about it. "She's a junkie, look at her arm, clearly dumped here in an effort to conceal an accident. Long term user…OD…no family, she's a street walker, trying to turn her life around." He paused, "She relapsed no doubt from her pusher fiancé, look at the ring recently taken on and of." He knelt close a small magnify glass making his eye appear enormous. "She aspirated, he panicked and threw her here, from the mud on her shoes and the other prints in the room men's size eleven no doubt you'll find him nearby…still fresh." He stood with a flourish, looking smug and self satisfied.

John was amazed without thinking, he blurted out a "Brilliant," softly without thinking about it. Suddenly everyone was staring at him, Matt was throwing him an 'oh you done it now boyo' look, while three where giving him an 'who the hell are you' and the last, was inscrutable. The army doctor found himself suddenly pinned, the recipient of that intelligent, piercing gaze. The unknown man go closer, and John was locked in place. He was very good looking, he thought suddenly, dismissing such an silly thought. His hair was black, curly about his head charmingly, he cheekbones defined and artful, he had the face of a model. Those eyes though, they swallowed John up.

"Iraq or Afghanistan?" he asked, and John blinked out of his thoughts. "Come again?" he asked, "Iraq or Afghanistan?"

"How did-"

"Way you hold yourself, military baring, your tan lines at your cuffs and neck, not to mention the dog tags. Recently returned as your tan is still visible, career military your cloths are about three years out of date you're used to wearing uniform." He leaned in closer, sniffing, "Living in the barracks, something happened your last tour so you decided it was time to move on, but you've been working out of small base hospital…doctor if I'm not mistaken." John's jaw wanted to unhinge. Matt shook his head, "Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John Watson."

The crime scene was quickly forgot boring and dull, but this man…he was intriguing. There was something more, something he couldn't place. It infuriated him, and compelled him at the same time. "You looking for a place to live in London, and I need a roommate, 221B Baker Street, tomorrow morning say 8?" He swept out of the room then shoes hurrying down the stair, "Call me when it's interesting Lestrade". Gone in a whirlwind, and John felt as if he'd been struck by a car, "Yeah he does that." Matt laughed as he handed him gloves, "Word of advice," the women stopped beside him, "Stay away from the freak." She was clearly pissed as she stormed out the house, the man, Lestrade, was on the phone and the other was packing up his equipment.

"Sherlock?" he asked Matt as they heaved the women on the gurney, rigor setting in. "Never seen him take to someone like that though, must like you…"

-#-#-#-

John had tossed and turned much of the night, for once not from nightmare. It was sharp piercing gray eyes, and that self-satisfied smile that haunted him all through the night. He was up early for his workout, more going through the motions as his mind wrestled with itself. Did he go or not? He argued himself all the way to central London, the cab dropping him off at 221B, located over a small café. "Ahh glad to see you decided to come." The deep voice spoke behind him, he turned to see a mop of curls hurrying towards him, "Come see…the landlady Mrs. Hudson, will no doubt find you an appropriate roommate." He hurried in, and up the stair. John followed at a more sedate pace, following him into what was probably a living room, stacked with papers, books, files, and human bones by the look of it. The kitchen off to the side looked more like a laboratory.

"Oh hello dear, I'm Mrs. Hudson," he turned to see a charming older lady smiling at him, "Brought you some tea dears, Sherlock says you're a doctor." She set the tray down, "An army doctor," she smiled looking between them. "Be having a separate room then?" John looked to were the lanky man was sweeping papers off the sofa, settling himself artfully, then back to the sweet older women. "Yes, thank you Mrs. Hudson." She grinned, "Pleasure to meet you…oh Sherlock you shot the wall again." She scolded, muttering as she left.

"Well it can be fixed up a bit…" the intriguing man gestured around as John sat on a chair nearby, the seat was comfy…as if it had been made just for him. Blue eyes took everything in, "I'm not going to lie I can be a trying roommate," he said with a sniff. Blue eyes finally settle on him, "What is it you do exactly? I would say you where a private detective but..." A dark brow arched, "But?" John settled back in the chair, "But police don't consult armatures." Huffing with indignation he stood striding around the room, "No I am the world's only consulting detective. I…" John listened amused as he began to explain in great detail what exactly it was he did. John grinned slowly. Suddenly life did not seem all that boring.


	2. Pants, Bodies, and Bombs

Author's Note: So I have actually finished the rough draft of this supposed 'one shot' I wrote. Solid 26 pages worth…I am way to long winded. It's a matter of getting it up and posted now, but anyway. Enjoy the next instalment, I hope people are enjoying!

I'll Wait for You

Case 2 – Pants, Bodies, and Bombs

1 year later.

Sherlock strode around the room draped haphazardly in his bed sheet, his mind whirring in a million different directions. Data flowing endlessly through, cataloguing, and filing it away information for another time. The rustle of a paper turning had him spinning to the other occupant of the room, and currently the most infuriating person in his life. Doctor John Watson, blazing gray eyes narrowed at the man innocently reading his morning news. They had been living together for a year, a whole year since he'd met the man at the junkies death. He had been intrigued by him, a passing fancy he had assumed, but somehow the five foot nine army doctor had wormed his way into his life.

It had started innocently enough; he had needed some deeper medical knowledge on certain cases. He had helped in solving seemingly connected suicides…then John had had done the unthinkable; he had saved his life. That had been the first time, the first time he'd seen him as something more then a person he knew…he'd become a friend. Sherlock didn't do friends; he knew that, he knew he was off putting, a sociopath, and a 'freak'. He danced a fine line between madness and genius, often times the madness getting the better of him. But John had been there. He hadn't run when Sherlock's own dear brother absconded him, offering money to keep an eye on him. John had, in Mycroft's words, 'shown an astounding amount of loyalty'. He thought it misplaced, but Sherlock, he had felt something he'd long believed buried. A warmth

.

Since then they had faced a battery of crime, the most recent of which had just about cost John his life. Strapped to those explosives, Sherlock had felt fear, fear that he was going to loose the one person worthwhile that he had found in this life. That person who was making him feel again. Everyone form the Yard to his brother thought him emotionless, cold, and aloof beyond human emotions. He himself had believed it, believed it in an effort to control his life spinning out of control. His genius had come at a steep price, far from being cold and emotionless, his emotions at one time had almost overwhelmed him. So he had buried them, out of self-preservation he had erected a wall, impenetrable to those baser 'human' failings. Yet here this stocky man, with no fashion sense, astounding loyalty, and the patience of a saint; had barged in, and tore his careful construction all to hell.

As a friend, a colleague, at times a doctor when he'd patched Sherlock up in the bathroom more then once. He recalled a particular moment, after a nasty case. His mind recalled the scene in minute detail; it had been only a month into their new partnership. For the first time Sherlock had seen the solider instead of the doctor;

_The silence was thick as he quietly dabbed at his face in a no nonsense manner. The gash along his cheek was shallow, and ragged. Sherlock watched fascinated as bruised, split knuckles opened the plaster gently smoothing it into place. Questions, where tumbling over themselves in his mind, begging him mouth to ask, to deduce. "There," he said softly, John knelt between long lanky legs, checking his work with a critical eye. The compact man was sporting a black eye, and bloody noise but the others…in his mind Sherlock was replaying the scuffle.. John had dealt with ten well trained men as if they where out of hand. They had managed to catch them by surprise, leading to the black eye and noise, but John… had wailed the tar out of them. His movements contained and fluid, not a single motion wasted; it had been life poetry. _

"_You are more then a doctor aren't you…" John looked at him searchingly, "Yes." He said simply, "SAS weren't you…" the other man smiled nodding slightly, "I have a feeling Mycroft could probably get you my file if you are so interested." Sherlock paused it was intriguing, there was a depth to this man, one that he was not able to deduce, it would all be conjecture. Mycroft could get him that file, he had clearance above and beyond a top secret military, yet…no, John was fascinating. Getting the file would be cheating. _

"You need something?" John's voice cut through his mind, and he realized he was still standing, glaring at the object of his musings. "I'm board," he stated, whirling to pace again, "Board pacing dose not merit pants?" Snorting the detective, swept by, "I will only wear pants if there is a reason too…" John chuckled well used to his proclivities by now. "How about some breakfast?" He asked moving into the kitchen weaving though the experiments like a cat, unfazed as he opened the fridge eyeballs and ears in sealed Tupperware.

Sherlock looked over at him feeling suddenly hot, and uncomfortable. Here he came to the crux of his latest John problems. He had a whole file in his mind dedicated to the man, tucked away in his massive internal storage system and the thing was growing by the day. The 'incident' as he was coming to call it, had occurred three days ago.

_Sherlock absorbed in his latest experiment did not look up at first, he knew it was John padding out of the bathroom. His familiar light step moved across the living room into the kitchen no doubt to get a cup of morning coffee. Sherlock suddenly fancied himself a cup as well, he looked up to call out when the words died on his lips. John stood, all but naked save for the towel clinging to his narrow hips. Sherlock's eyes widened he'd never seen John in such a state usually he was wearing his tattered navy robe. _

_Keen eyes took in every muscle, as it bunched and moved he was well built toned, and strong. He hummed oblivious to the scrutiny, his chest covered in a dusting of hair narrowing where it disappeared beneath his navel. His dog tags gleamed, clinking softly, and gray eyes took in the scars. A puckered pink hole in his shoulder from a snipers rifle. A long scar arching across his back someone had snuck up on him when he wasn't wearing his Kevlar from the shallowness though he'd managed to dodge the fatality of it. More across his ribs, these where shinny, the skin a taut newness about it, burns, no doubt for an explosion._

_What caught his eye though was his shoulder opposite, it sported a large tattoo. Sherlock frowned he had lived with the man a year he had no idea he had such art on his body. _

"_Coffee?" He asked not bothering to look up, suddenly the lanky man was an inch from him, long fingers gripping his arm. "You have a tattoo!" the detective accused, John pretended to be surprised. "Would you look at that…." He said feigning surprise. Sherlock gave him a dirty look. Long elegant fingers gently gripped the inked flesh, it was a half sleeve, ornate clearly well done, older he had got it when it was younger judging by the condition of the ink it had seen some wear, "What's it mean?" he demanded, a blonde brow arched, "You haven't deduced?" the younger man went back to the pattern, it was an easy one, "St. George slaying the dragon…patron saint of soldiers. Your id number, the name of your regiment…" he paused suddenly, realizing John was smiling at him amused, not minding the man handled his arm. _

_He released the warm flesh quickly, "It's nice, and yes coffee would be great." Nodding he turned back to the counter, "Where is your robe John?" The blonde laughed, "Someone used it to clean up a chemical spill…" Sherlock feigned innocence. _

Since then that image of John had been haunting him, all sinew and muscle, it made him hot and bothered…Sherlock was confused. He had never had to deal with these types of feelings… his thoughts cut off as his phone dinged; he swept over to it in a flurry of expensive sheets. "Lestrade," John predicted from the kitchen, and Sherlock glanced at him again before looking at the message.

_We have a weird one… -L_

_How weird? – SH_

_The body was dismembered and reassembled – L_

That did it, "John!" he yelled throwing the sheet off he stood in his boxers, he turned to his companion, "We have a case!" Nodding unconcerned the doctor sipped his coffee, "You may want to put some pants on if your going to fight crime today," a mop of black curls looked at him puzzled then down. "Perhaps you are right…" he muttered moving into his bedroom John watching him hiding his smile in his cup.

Unhurried he sipped his beverage pulling on his jumper, and slipping on his shoes he looked at his watch he had another five minutes yet. Sherlock liked to pretend he didn't care, but he always fussed getting dressed. It was scary how well he'd got to know the man in the last year. Despite all the warning to stay out, he hadn't. He had stayed, he had learned more then he'd ever wanted to know; but it had a hell of a ride showing no signs of stopping. He had taken up a part-time position at Matt's recommend clinic, but the majority of his time was spent chasing a long limbed consulting detective around London…and loving every moment of it. There had been some tough scraps, and dark days, for both he and Sherlock. They had weathered the storm though, seen the worst of each other and come through on the other side. Side by side.

Sherlock could be an incredible ass, but John had never met someone like him. Probably never would again. He was rude, obnoxious, and had no consideration for others, but John wouldn't change him for the world. "Ready John," he announced sweeping by in his coat, looking impeccable, the gleam of the hunt in his eyes. They where out the door and into the street minutes later.

The pulled up in front of police tape sweeping through, well Sherlock swept John sort of just sauntered. "Hullo Greg," he called to the detective, the man nodded at John,  
"Got a hell of a mess here John…" he said shaking his head, his complexion was pallid and tired. Either the job was running him down, or the wife was. Either way John could sympathize. Sherlock wasn't paying attention he was already squatting looking at what they had.

"What do you think?" he asked with no small amount of trepidation. "This body has been dead for a long time, the parts where cut with medical precision but not here else where." He looked around, they where in the cheaper side of London, the house run down barren and falling apart. "The scene was staged?" Lestrade asked perplexed, as John got closer, "It would appear so," Sherlock was moving around the room taking in the information storing it away.

It was John that heard the soft click, a click that haunted his waking nightmares, and a sound he had hoped he would never hear again. Without thought he was up running, "Out!" he yelled in his best parade voice, hitting Sherlock dead on he punched them through the wall and into the adjoining room. Seconds later the world exploded.

Ears ringing he blinked dust out of his eyes, rolling off the taller man, "You ok?" he shouted shaking his head to clear it. Sherlock looked confused, muddled, it was an odd look for him. "What happened?" he shouted back, John was already up and moving back into the smouldering room. "You two ok?" Greg was looking at them from the other side of the room, bewildered and dishevelled. "What the hell happened." John was already kneeling, pulling the small device out, it was crude, made from a plastic bottle. "IED," he said standing to face Sherlock, the tall man frowned, his face was smudged with dirt as he studied the bottle. Brows knitted, "I heard the click, it's a sound that mean's life and death." John said answering the unspoken question, Sherlock looked at him grateful for a second.

"It's very simple design," the detective muttered looking at the twisted remains, "Yeah I've made better then that…" John said offhand, grey eyes looked at him in surprise. "What the hell is going on?" Lestrade demanded moving from bewilderment to anger, royally pissed someone had tried to blow them up. "Staged crime scene, and a bomb…" there was a sudden excitement about Sherlock that John was used to seeing by now. He was excited by the puzzle, for the game and ultimately a conclusion. Yet his excitement for the bizarre and horrendous had earned him that label of 'freak' and 'sociopath'. Judging by the look Anderson was giving him, the nickname wasn't going anywhere in the near future. Once upon a time it had bugged John to no end, wanting Sherlock to defend himself. He never had, he had allowed others to just assume, he didn't give a flying fuck what people thought of him…John smiled a little to himself.

"So now what?" Lestrade was looking at them for guidance he was out to lunch. "Check all the morgues and medical laboratories, see if anyone is missing a female body age 26 maybe 27, recently died of natural causes. I need to think…" he strode out of the room and John looked at Greg, "Give us a text ya? I'm more worried about the bomb." He was headed after Sherlock when the detective spoke again. "Why the bomb?" John turned back, "It wasn't meant for a building, it was meant for the people in the room." There was a chuckle, "He'd rubbing off on you mate," laughing he gave a wave, picking up his pace catching his lanky friend halfway down the street. He said nothing simply fell in step beside him, "Ok?" John asked softly, as crossed the road, a long arm waving down a cab. "Yes, of course John," he replied absently as they got in headed for home.


	3. Strangers, Training, and Home

Author's Note: Instalment three here, just to forewarn there is a tasty scene coming up (promise) though it is incredibly sappy. I think I'm just a romantic at heart. Also apologies for any faux paux on my part regarding British military practices I'm not sure how it operates past 1945 lol. For my reviewers, apologies for my poor spelling/grammar issues I have dyslexia and I can get very muddled sometimes with my words practice is making me better though! For now enjoy feedback of a constructive nature is always welcome.

I'll Wait for You

Case 03 – Strangers, Training, and Home

Back on Baker Street, Sherlock was up the stairs in a flash, dark curls. John slower, stopped to talk to Ms. Hudson, assuring them they where fine before joining his companion. Shrugging out of his coat he blew on chilly hands, "Fancy a cuppa?" he asked headed into the kitchen. Sherlock didn't answer, but then again he rarely did, the steady beat of his feet was almost therapeutic to John.

Sherlock was thrumming with adrenaline as his mind swirled pulling up information, facts, and data. The case at present had little yet it remained intriguing, a small idea taking shape. He replayed the crime scene in his mind almost as if it where a film, feeling again John's warm, solid mass crashing them through the wall. The weight of him crushing down, comforting and close, while the explosion nearby had left his head ringing. He'd been so close to it, the one to detonate it. He paused in his pacing his limbs suddenly trembling, refusing to respond to his mental commands. A look of utter confusion passed across his features seconds before he collapsed to his knees.

John heard the thump, tea forgotten he rushed to the man's side. "Sherlock?" he asked gently taking him under the arms and pulling him upright. "I'm…I…" he was at a loss, his mind and legs where at cross purposes as the Doctor settled him on the settee. "You eat?" he asked softly, the silence spoke volumes. With a sigh the doctor wrapped the afghan around narrow shoulders, "Shock Sherlock, like the paramedics are always trying to give you a blanket for." He snorted angrily pushing it off, "I am not in shock I'm fine," he said despite the trembling in his body. "Hmmm," John hummed, "Well sit and think then, with a blanket on…" he said calmly.

Every fibre in his body was telling him to get up and moving, mad that his body was betraying him in such a way, he felt weak. "Want to hear about the first time I was exploded?" John said in the calm deep voice, that soothing voice. Sherlock knew exactly what he was doing, and damn if it wasn't working.

Sherlock sat back gathering the blanket around him, listening and he spoke moving about the flat getting them tea, and something to eat. The younger man listened despite himself, it was lulling and comforting. Sherlock would die a thousand times over before he admitted he was John's biggest fan. The man was an amazing storyteller his blog about their exploits, despite what he told John were very well done. They where honest, insightful, and they made him seem real…something that he was grateful to John for. For what John thought of him was the only thing that really mattered.

His smile was genuine as John settled a cup a tea near his arm, and a bowl of apples, "Cinnamon and sugar?" he asked looking at the slices, "Always." The solider said settling beside him on the couch, he watched as long fingers delicately took a slice eating it slowly before licking sticky fingers. Blue eyes looked away slightly, as he reigned himself, breathing deep, trying to relax. Techniques he'd learned in the service, the ability to control himself, especially around the handsome, albeit pale and wan detective that had invaded his life in a whirlwind of dark curls and fluttering coats. "Why the body John? Why?" Sherlock muttered he shifted on the couch, coming closer to John their hips touching ever so lightly. John made no move to break the tentative contact, as he leaned back letting Sherlock's flurry of conversation wash over him. His mind wandering back to a month ago. A day after their first meeting with Moriarty in the pool. He'd had to leave on military training for a week.

"_You're awful cheery John, what's different about you?" Steve, one of his crew looked at him as they rumbled across the countryside in a chopper. He shrugged, smiling despite himself. "He's met someone it's all over his face. Captains in love." One of the other boys called across the chopper, the others howling and catcalling. He told them to knock it off and get them sorted before the drop. All that week though his mind was slowly coming to terms with something he'd been trying to vehemently deny. _

Despite his effort to not too, all the reasons in the world he shouldn't, he'd fallen in love with the arrogant, selfish, socially inept Sherlock Holmes. He couldn't imagine a worse possible scenario, the detective had told him once he was married to his work. There was no chance to for him…for them…but love knew no reason. No matter what Sherlock thought. So John hid away his tender feelings, coveted them like a treasure. Cherished every smile, friendly touch, and stolen moment of domesticity they shared. Thankful his friend was oblivious to things as inconsequential as love and passion.

Sherlock ignorant to his companions plight, was enjoying being so close to the others warmth, he prattled on, pausing, finishing his apple and tea. In this moment, together, quite in the couch, he was content. An odd feeling for him. John stood cleaning up the dishes, "Want more? Toast? Leftovers?" He called, and Sherlock muttering to himself once more, in control of his legs he stood then beginning to pace. John managed to put toast in his hand on the way by, he began to nibble. Settling on the couch he rustled the news papers, began reading watching smugly as he ate his toast. Not even Mycroft could get him to eat like John could.

Sudden music blared from his pocket, he sighed that was the military calling. "Watson," he answered briskly, not even throwing Sherlock off. He spoke several minutes before confirming and hanging up. "Sherlock," John called wearily form the couch, the man never looked up the afghan still clutched haphazardly. John fell in step beside him, "Army called,"

"Oh yes…"

"Yes, I have training."

"Hmmm…"

"I'll be gone for a month." That got his attention, "What? Now? But the case!" John patted his shoulder. "Can't be helped, stay out of trouble ya?"

-#-#-#-

"Did we really need to call him?" Anderson hissed glancing to where the tall man was swooping like some bird of prey across the room. "Yes I did," Lestrade glared at him, "We have no idea who or why someone is stealing corpses and staging crime scenes." He hissed, looking back to Sherlock, it was the second one in a month. Not that it had stopped Sherlock from badgering the hell out of him, Sherlock had been more abrasive then usual. Greg had a feeling it had something to do with the absence of Dr. Watson. That man had been a godsend, a moderating effect on Sherlock, he seemed to bring round whatever humanity the man had. Without him though, Sherlock seemed to be a rudderless ship.

"Staged again, why? What do they want?' Sherlock muttered feverishly leaving the room, he darted throughout the darkened house. This time a upper residential area, in a house that was on the market, made up to look like a real house. Staged. He stood before the stairs thinking, why? Why the staging, There was a sudden hard shove against his back. The lanky detective registered he was flying through the air. Spinning he saw a dark figure seconds before he hit the top part of the stair his shoulder giving an audible crack before he mercifully blacked out.

Lestrade and Donavon came running hearing the horrendous noise. The crumpled figure at the bottom of the stair lay unnaturally still. "Oh my god, call an ambulance."" The Inspector hollered hurrying down to check for a pulse.

-#-#-#-

John didn't remember ever being so wet. There where deep in the unfathomable reaches of Scotland training, and it had been raining damn near the entire time he'd been here. "At least Afghanistan was mostly sunny." He was in a bad mood, their field ex was ending, but damnit if all he wanted to do was get back to Baker Street, and chase that curly headed git all over London. To get back to the one he loved more then anything,

Training had turned into mostly babysitting, new recruits as green as they came, where more of a hazard to themselves and those nearby they anything. Sighing in his foxhole he pulled a protein bar out of his vest pocket, wincing as his two broken fingers protested the movement. He had set them himself, splinting the with tongue depressors and tape, the makeshift splint dirty and falling apart in the rain. Feeling utterly sorry for himself he glanced upwards into the overcast sky, wondering if his socks where ever going to be dry again.

Adjusting his vest and helmet he hunkered down ready to spend another gorgeous day in the service. It was the sudden whir of a very close chopper that got his attention, he glanced up to see a military issue helicopter fly overhead and land nearby their camp. Curious John got out of his hole hurrying over to base headquarters wondering what was wrong. The Major would have it well in hand, but it was the most action he'd seen in weeks. He stopped outside spotting Captain Wilson waiting as well wasn't everyday that someone showed up in the middle of no where. "Some big brass got out of that thing," Wilson was pulling out a cigarette out offering one to John, the doctor absently took one lighting up. He had never told Sherlock but in combat he often smoked, when bullets where flying over your head and your hands trembled so bad you couldn't hold your rifle, sometimes it was the only thing that could steady you, gave him a centre. He quit when he'd returned to civilian life, not many people trusted a doctor that smoked.

Major Hurts stuck his head out of the tent then, waving John in. He took one last drag before tossing the fag into the mud stomping, entering the tent with a salute. "At ease," Major said, "John they're here to get you." Confused he nodded, "5 minutes in the chopper," the general exited and Hurst turned to him, "Watson what the blue hell is going on? That man had some kind of clearance to come pull your wet ass out of here." A small idea was forming in the back of John's head, "Not sure Sir," sighing he waved him out, "Lucky dog out of here 2 days early I'll see you at base." With a salute he was gone headed to grab his duffle.

He was ready minutes later, not daring to ask the General why. They where dropped in Edinburgh before a private jet met him, he boarded warily, sighing when he saw the pristine white leather and cream coloured interior. He looked down and his dirty, scruffy, unwashed self, he fidgeted for a moment before making a decision. Tossing his duffle on the floor, he settled himself flat out using his bag for a pillow. Sighing he undid his coat, the plane was coming to life under him, and for the first time in a month he was dry and warm. He closed his tired eyes relaxing slowly, his mind was not so easily relaxed. Only Mycroft had this kind of pull and if Mycroft was calling him back something must be wrong with Sherlock. Sighing he rubbed his eyes, he was tired, and worried, but there was nothing he could do save sleep.

He must have passed out, as there was suddenly a voice hollering at him, a car was waiting on the tarmac. He stood groaning as his stiff, sore muscles protested. He flexed fingers grunting in pain, his digits an ugly black and blue. Sure enough as he exited the plane there was a familiar nondescript dark car waiting. Soon he was speeding through the dark streets of London, a growing knot of dread in his stomach. It was late, the clock was telling him it was midnight. The trip was quick, confirming his fears as they pulled up in front of the hospital. "Thanks," he called to the driver grabbing his duffle and heading inside.

It was a bizarre tableaux John Watson walked in on, Mycroft and Lestrade where arguing in the lobby. It was amusing though when the pair turned to him, uncomprehending, "Good Lord John?" Mycroft asked squinting through the layer of grime, "At your service, now why was I hauled out of training in such a dramatic fashion?" He asked setting his bag down, pinching the bridge of his nose when they both started talking at once. "One at a time, Lestrade what happened?"

The Detective Inspector explained hurriedly about the crime scene, the mysterious figure pushing Sherlock down the stair. John stiffened at that, "Is he ok?" Mycroft stepped in, "Dislocated shoulder bumps and bruises, mild concussion." He let out a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding, "This happened yesterday?" He asked looking between the two men, who where now shifting uncomfortably, "A week ago," Lestrade blurted out, John was confused, "So why are we in the hospital still?" Mycroft sighed, "Because he won't leave, he's been truly insufferable John since you left."

The solider chuckled. "So I'm here to get him to go home?" they both nodded, he ran a hand through matted blonde hair. Grunting as he forgot about his fingers, "Alright, which room?" They pointed wordlessly, "I'll send a doctor in to fix your fingers," Mycroft said as he passed by. Nodding the solider headed to the private room, passing a nurse who scuttled by looking terrified, she gave John the once over before hurrying away. "Be careful, but you look ready to do battle" she whispered. Sighing he rounded the corner; he had everyone up in arms. Leaning against the doorframe he took in the long, lean figure facing away from him in the hospital bed. He knew Sherlock hadn't been eating, he looked thinner, the sling on his right arm holding his shoulder still. "I said I want to be left alone!" he yelled flipping suddenly he hurled a bed pan right for John's head. The solider snagged it out of the air easily, managing to jar already painfully swollen fingers.

Grey eyes widened when he realized who was standing in the door, "John!" he gasped sitting up, suddenly well aware of the man in the door. He stepped inwards, and Sherlock felt all the air in his lungs leave in a rush. He was dirty, unkempt, and he was all man. In full combat gear, sporting a blonde beard, he his teeth where a startling white when he grinned at him. "Shirly…" he said moving closer to the bed, returning the bed pan to its rightful place. The detective frowned at the nickname, the one that only John was allowed to used. "Your brother pulled me out of training. Says you don't want to do home." He said offhand, Sherlock was stubbornly silent, grey eyes sneaking glances at the suddenly compelling man. "Can't imagine why…" John said casually sitting on the one chair in the room. They stayed like that for long minutes, neither one giving ground, a silent battle of wills taking place. Until a knock sounded at the door. "Someone needed a doctor?" John looked up to the nervous looking women, then back at Sherlock who was glaring daggers. "Right that's me," curls bobbed as he twisted to look at John suddenly worried.

She pushed a little tray of instruments, and John pulled his makeshift wrappings off. The digits where a painfully swollen mess, "I set them but need some braces." She winced turning the hand over to take a look, "You set these yourself? Did you use a local or…" she trailed off, the charmingly good looking man was smiling at him, "No need too."

"I'll give you something for the swelling." Suddenly another head was in the way, and long pale fingers snatched John's hand to look at them . "What did you do?" he demanded feeling, the callused dirty palms. Chuckling the solider gently pried away his hands, "I got between a moron, and a tree." He frowned but allowed the doctor to work splinting his fingers, John refusing the pain meds. "Had worse," he mumbled thanking her as she left, with a look that spoke volumes. Sherlock saw it, a sudden flare of some unfathomable emotion caught him. Hot and angry, it curled like a snake in his belly. He didn't like the way she had looked at John. Like she had wanted to eat him.

"Right, so I am going to Baker Street, hot bath, hot meal, and good sleep…you interested in any of that?" Sherlock was silent, sighing John stood heading for the door. A long limb arm gabbed his arm, "Wait…" came the voice, small and plaintive. A blonde brow arched, "You coming?" He nodded slowly, standing he moved to get his cloths. "I'll wait in the hall," he said mildly, when Sherlock's next sentence stopped him. "I didn't want to go back there, while you where gone." He didn't look at him just stood there, wondering how he was going to changed. John came over draping his coat over him, "It's late no one will see."


	4. Bath, Breakfast, and Alleys

Author's Note: The next instalment, work on getting the rest up this weekend as a labour day treat. Little more plot, getting closer then I promise action in the next chapter! For now enjoy!

I'll Wait for You

Case 4 – Bath, Breakfast, and Alleys 

John was ecstasy, he moaned in contentment as he sank further into the hot water. Not giving a flying fuck that the bubbles where scented with vanilla, it was heaven after a month in dirt and rain. He was going to enjoy every moment of it.

Out in the living room on the couch, Sherlock was rapidly clicking away on the laptop. He was convinced he was suffering some sort of disease. Since John had retuned he'd been running the gamut, sweaty, happy, depressed, hot, and confused, all within the hour. They had left the hospital, his brother throwing him a rather Cheshire type grin. It had all been very confusing. Now he was firmly convinced the web would provide the answer, he was readying himself for dire news. What he got back was probably worse then any disease he could think of. The article before him was describing his symptoms to the letter; he was in love.

His mind was whirring again, pulling all the gathered information, and fitting it together like a jigsaw puzzle. The heat he'd felt seeing John undressed, the hurt and sadness when he left, the closeness, the need to touch him be near him, hear him speak. He wasn't sure if he was in love with John Watson, he wasn't sure what love was at all. He knew though these feelings where beyond anything else, and he wanted him…intimately. Panic followed the revelation, utter and sheer terror, what did he do? This was all new territory. He'd never been so inclined to anyone, never wanted to be with someone like he did with the solider. What if John didn't feel the same way? What if his affection wasn't to be returned? That was even worse, his heart was thrumming painfully, an organ that until that moment he hadn't really understood it's true nature.

What could he do? He glanced down at the documents open, the research, the information. When the answer came to him; so clearly obvious he wanted to kick himself. He'd make John want him! Smiling then he began to read, the light of challenge in his eyes, this was not boring.

Warmed and clean shaven Doctor John Watson felt more like himself. A towel hugged his hips as he exited the bathroom another draped across his shoulders, he passed by Sherlock unnoticed, the man was absorbed in his laptop hindered slightly by his shoulder. John pass by heading for clean cloths. Opting for sweats and a t-shirt he rejoined him, silently making tea in the kitchen. Sherlock looked up, feeling the now identified pang of lust. John in uniform was something, John in sweats one leg trucked up to his knee, his t-shirt too small, too tight, was just as inspiring apparently he'd put on more muscle this month. The fabric barely staying together. Blood was pooling in his groan, shocked grey eyes looked down. He had an erection…he hadn't had that sort of issue since the awkwardness of puberty. He suddenly wanted to rip the shirt of John, and lick every inch of skin. He blinked at the sudden vision that drifted across his normally logical mind…it was very illogical.

John was saying something, he shook his head, "What sorry?" the man spoke again, "Tea?" he nodded, looking at the laptop, time to put his plan in action. "How about we watch a movie?" he blurted out startling John. Blue eyes blinked, it was one in the morning but his long sleep on the plane left him feeling wide awake. His irregular sleep on the training mission would have him thrown off for a while. "Ok, what would you like to watch?" if the solider was confused he hid it well, Sherlock was not a fan of TV and movies, well trash TV he seemed to enjoy. So why did he want to watch a movie? Getting the tea on the table he went to his small shelf of DVD's, "Any requests?" he frowned, "The one with the shark…" John chuckled, "Jaws?" black curls nodded, "Yes that one." Chuckling he set it up on the TV, moving to settle in his chair when Sherlock stopped him, "You should sit here with me…on the couch." He said abruptly, looking everywhere but at him. A blonde brow arched, he said nothing, simply sat beside him on the couch legs up on the coffee table. Sherlock, shifted and fussed for a bit before shifting closer. They where twenty minutes into the movie when Sherlock was gently leaning into him, the solider was intrigued, what was he up too?

The credits rolled and John, shifted his shoulder slightly, Sherlock having already fallen asleep slid down further against John's chest. He sighed slightly, nuzzling against him. "Sherlock?" he said softly, no movement, "Shirley?" he tired again no answer. He was out cold. Sighing he slid out from under him, he really didn't want to wake him up, he slept so little, but his lanky frame wasn't going to fit very well in the couch. Sighing he leaned down, hauling him up into his arms bridal style. "You've lost weight…" he murmured, he was way to light he was for his height. With little strain he carried him into the his unkempt bedroom. He settled him on the bed gently, pulling the covers over him. Sighing softly, he turned to his uninjured side, "John," he whispered through softly parted lips.

That soft, half sighed moan did everything to him. He stalled beside the bed, half of him telling him to leave well enough alone, the other begging for him to slide into bed beside him. He looked so different asleep, the usual lines of thought on his face clear. John forgot his youth sometimes, then moments like this he felt like an old man. That face of an angel, he smiled wirily to himself, he was getting damn romantic these days. Loosing his internal battle he leaned down pressing a kiss to that clear brow. Smelling soft curls, he brushed callused hands delicately across his face. Sighing over his own behaviour, he moved out of the room and heading to his own, rather lonely bed. Missing the grey eyes that opened in the dark, and the smile that pulled that face he had fallen so hard for.

-#-#-#-

"John!" the yell woke him with a start, "John!" the bellow came again. Groaning the man in question glanced at his clock, it was 5 bloody AM what the hell was the git yelling for? Dazed and still half asleep, he staggered to the living room. "Sherlock for the love of god, it's 5 in the morning what are you on about?" He blinked as John finally came into view, his jaw almost unhinged. The man was wearing oh so tight, black boxer briefs, and nothing else save his dog tags. He was groggy, cross, and looking better then any man had a right too. "I umm…buttons…" he muttered. Flapping his useless arm, seeming to understand he came over with a grunt. Quick efficient movements John had not only buttoned him up but tucked in his shirt as well.

"Case?" Sherlock cleared his throat, turning away, "Umm no, be back soon." He shrugged into his coat and was gone. John having given up asking questions anymore, dragged his overly tired himself back to bed. He was going to catch up on his sleep.

The second time he woke, he smelled smoke. Someone had put the cook fire on…he closed his eyes again his mind processing, he was back on Baker Street, and there should not be any smoke ideally. He was up and out of bed tugging on sweats as he went. He bounded into the kitchen in time to see Sherlock scraping bunt looking eggs onto a plate. He stood motionless, "Ahh John, good you're up." He moved to return the pan to the stove, "What is this?" Sherlock blinked looking at the plate of burnt, crispy food. "I made breakfast!" he exclaimed looking pleased. He gestured to John to sit down. He sat slowly, looking at the plate as if something may leap out at him.

Expectant grey eyes watched every move, John looked suspiciously from his flatmate to his plate and back, "This some experiment Sherlock?" that pale face fell a little, "No I just wanted to make you breakfast." John nodded, "Thank you," he smiled softly taking a hesitate bite. It was burnt, and black, but in all honesty it wasn't the worse breakfast he'd ever had. He'd been in the army most of his life after all. Happily Sherlock watched him eat, picking at his own food, he had done it. Put his plan into motion. He was ninety percent sure John wasn't indifferent to him, he had spent a lot of time thinking about the kiss he'd given him last night, while chaste had shown him that maybe there was defiantly hope

John smiled at him finishing his plate, Sherlock watched him begin to clean-up his mess. He had decided on a plan of attack last night, his research had been fruitful, dates, doing nice things for them, asking them about their day it had all seemed so straight forward. "What are you doing today John?" he asked suddenly trying to look casual, the doctor paused in his dish scrubbing, "Well I wasn't supposed to be back for another three days, so nothing I guess." He said, not thinking much of it, he could sleep some more. "Excellent let's go out," Sherlock looked excited standing, he faced his companion grinning, "Ok?" John was equal parts confused as he was delighted. "Is it a case?" he asked, Sherlock looked thoughtful for long moments, "Yes, case I'm working on." John nodded, of course work, "I'll go get ready." He said moving out of the room Sherlock's mind rolling and bubbling with thoughts, planning what would come next.

Half hour later saw the pair leaving the front door and into the foggy London street. It was a crisp morning, not as cold as Scotland but not warm either. John followed him along the street casually looking around, when you where in the middle of now where, you missed the hustle and bustle of the city. The cases, Sherlock…. "What is it you are thinking about?" Sherlock was beside him suddenly, having slowed his usual long legged stride. John nearly came out of his skin, "Good god Sherlock," he clutched his heart the man came out of no where. John shrugged, but he strode beside him looking keen to hear his answer. "Just that I missed London when I was gone, that I always rather missed London when I was gone." He spoke softly, musingly, looking at the sun peaking through the clouds.

"What was it like the war?" Sherlock asked then, looking at him piercingly. Blue eyes blinked, "Come again?" he was startled, they had lived together for a year, and Sherlock had almost made a point of not asking him about the war. "The war, I would like to hear about it." John was growing more curious by the second, as to what all this was about. He debated telling him to sod off, but something made him pause. Generally Sherlock did not ask questions he wasn't genuinely wanting the answer too. John decided to humour him, "It was hot, and people shot at me. A lot." Sherlock blinked at him, before smiling, "Very funny…"

Laughing he grinned at him, "Alright what do you want to know," the morning faded into afternoon as they wandered the busy streets. They spoke to one another as friends would, sharing memories of childhood, moments of sorrow, moments of triumph. Time passed pleasantly as they wandered aimlessly, pausing on a quiet park a bridge. John leaning back against the wooden rails, glancing at his companion. Wind tussled curls danced about his countenance, he wore a soft smile, eyes bright and sharp. Today had been pleasant, quite, and something that John could very much get used too.

Sherlock thought the whole thing had gone swimmingly, at first he'd been simply doing as the research had suggested, try and get to know John better…but his stories had been engaging. Sometimes funny, sometimes sad, but all had been interesting. In turn he'd found himself opening up, relating childhood memories of himself and Mycroft. He glanced at John, looking handsome and devilish in the late afternoon sun. Blue eyes where distant and thoughtful, it did something to Sherlock's stomach. It felt hot and tight, his breath was short wanting nothing more then to reach out and touch him.

Lost in his own mind he nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt a callused finger gently brush his cheek, "Sorry, bug." John said softly, they where close now, Sherlock bent towards him, faces inches apart. Blue eyes darted to soft looking lips and he inclined his head closer, Sherlock didn't pull away gray eyes closed in anticipation. A sudden sharp ring jolted them apart almost guilty, it was Sherlock's phone. John moved away, clearing his throat. "Probably important." He said softly, the mood shattered and Sherlock suddenly angry. He had been so close to kissing John, so close… "What Lestrade…" he snapped.

"There's another one," Sherlock stiffened, "A staged body?" he asked, John looked at him frowning. "Yeah, you coming?"

"Yes, address?" he was already moving John falling in step beside him.

-#-#-#-

"How's the shoulder?" Lestrade asked as soon as they where on scene, "Fine," he snapped moving past him already dismissing everything around them save the crime. "Afternoon Doctor, or should I say G.I. Joe?" Greg teased, snorting John came to stand next to him. "What's going on Greg? Another one?" the Detective Inspector hummed in agreement, before Sherlock spoke. "Yes you have another, already dead body. Male this time it would appear, but why here…" he stood looking around the alleyway. It was a thoroughfare in a very busy section of London.

Lestrade kept silent, he had learned long ago to let Sherlock do what ever it was he did in silence. John squatted by the body, looking at the pale limbs. "He's been embalmed," Sherlock whirled looking at him, "What did you say?" Blue eyes looked up at him through blonde lashes, "I said he'd been embalmed." He was looking upwards turning this way and that, muttering to himself.

A sudden squeal of tires at the mouth of the alley had Lestrade and John looking up. A small compact was suddenly gunning towards them. They seemed to freeze, and for the trained combat veteran the world went into slow motion. Instinct took hold, Sherlock oblivious, was lost in his mind, filtering, but the car was careening towards him on the far side of the dead man. The solider was up running jumping forward he grabbed Sherlock turning as the car hit them head on. John cradled Sherlock close as they hit the windshield flying up over the top, landing on the ground in a tangled heap.

The car never stopped, metal grinding, engine overworking as the unknown driver gunned over the body, and out the other side of the ally. Peeling away in a haze of blue smoke. John's chest was on fire, his ears where ringing, and he couldn't seem to draw a deep breath. "John!" Sherlock was leaning over him, grey eyes filled with concern. "Holy mother of God, are you alright?" Lestrade looked shaken, "No he is not alright we where just hit by a car Lestrade." Sherlock snapped, John wheezed painfully, sitting up slowly, his chest was killing. "Sherlock you ok? Shoulder still good?" He asked softly, "I'm fine, you took most of the impact." Nodding he slowly heaved to his feet, taking mental inventory of his injuries. His ribs where bruised bad, the rest of the injured where relatively mild for the impact. He flexed his hands sighing when the familiar shooting pain ran up his arm, looking down at his once more crooked fingers. With deft movements he popped them back into place with a grunt. Fascinated grey eyes watched him, as he moved to the ally looking around before turning back to look at Lestrade. "I think," he said slowly, "I figured out why the bodies are staged." He turned to look at the consulting detective, Sherlock smiled slowly. "Someone is try to kill me…"


	5. Stalker, Bruises, and Bullets

Author's Note: Second last chapter and I have some warning here, things are going to get steamy! Little Johnlock action! Enjoy and look forward to the conclusion of this little Sherlock story.

I'll Wait for You

Case 5 – Stalker, Bruises, and Bullets

"How long did you know?" John asked calmly, sitting down in his favourite easy chair, very carefully. "I had my suspicions after the first one." He was pacing, looking excited. "Who would want to kill you that bad Sherlock, other then the obvious." He never stopped pacing, "It's too sloppy for Morarty, no it's someone else. You where right today, all the bodies have been embalmed…we've been looking in the wrong place." Fingers flying he texted Lestrade, before setting the phone down, he designed to wait. Staring a the device as if it would make it buzz sooner.

Realizing they where in for a wait, John heaved his battered body into the bathroom. Easing slowly out of his cloths, he had to check the damage. Bare to the waist he stood before the mirror, scrunching his face in sympathy. His left side, where he'd taken the impact was a massive purple, black bruise. Stretching from hip to ribcage. "Need any help?" He jumped, as the deep voice caught him by surprise. "Jesus," he looked up in the mirror seeing grey eyes all but devouring him. The doctor blinked in surprise. Sherlock almost looked like he wanted to jump him. A small bud of hope was forming in his battered chest. Maybe it was the hard knock to the head he'd taken off the car, maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe it was the hopelessness he had long accepted when it came to this man. Whatever it was he was though, he felt suddenly nervous, giddy, and eager.

With slow delibrance he turned to the taller man, they where close enough to feel each others body heat. John closed that final distance between them, looking from wide eyes to those expressive lips that taunted him with smirks, smiles, and smug grins. With a final push lips touched, and electricity flew. It was brief, hesitant, and beautiful. John pulled away slowly, a stunned Sherlock was staring back at him. The silence was thick and heavy neither moved, and John had the sinking feeling he'd just blown the best relationship he'd ever had.

Just as he suddenly had it in his mind it was all over, he found his arms full of lanky detective pressing an enthusiastic if inexperienced kiss on him. "Whoa Sherlock," he pulled back wincing, "Easy." Sherlock backed off immediately looking almost chastised. John backtracked, "Hold on," he grabbed his arm pulling him close, "I just meant watch my ribs." He mumbled kissing his lips more firmly controlling the pace, slow, sensual. He felt the taller man buckle in the knees. He caught him setting him on the ledge of the tub as he forced open his mouth inviting his tongue to play.

Long slow moments went on and on, until need for air drove them apart. Gasping Sherlock rested his forehead against John's, the solider taking everything in. Swollen lips, looking even more kissable, and that pale, narrow face looking so young and venerable at that moment. "Is this what today's been about? Breakfast? The walk?" John asked softly, searching grey eyes. The lanky man swallowed thickly, "Yes…" he whispered. Sherlock's mind for once wasn't whirling, spinning out of control, a simple kiss from John had quitted that ceaseless turmoil. It was amazing. He was beginning to understand why some people became so enamoured with intimacy. Well not that he had any prior to experience, but he was eager to learn more. His dress pants where suddenly way to tight, and it seemed like a fantastic idea to take them off. Long fingers reached out touching the hard planes of muscle on the compact shoulder gently caressing the ever darkening bruise. Tracing taught abs, tangling in the mat of hair, before moving lower.

John was ready to die, those innocent hesitant touches where driving him mad, and he was ready to give Sherlock the ride of his life. Six months of unrequited affection threatened to spill out, to swamp him; before any of that though he had to confirm a suspicion, "Sherlock, are you…I mean to say…" He faulted, "Was that my first kiss?" Sherlock supplied looking helpful. "Yes, I never really understood people and emotions, and the need for physical contact but I am willing to learn more." John smiled sinking callused hands into soft curls, he leaned forward again kissing those lips once more. Things began heating up, the solider opening buttons on the shirt he had buttoned earlier. He fumbled one handed managing to open John's jeans, revealing his crimson boxer briefs.

Sherlock was a high thread count boxer man, but he was fast becoming a big fan of John's boxer briefs. The tighter the better. Things where heating up in the bathroom, hot and heavy. Pants where shed John was pulling Sherlock into his laps as they sat on the closed lid of the toilet. Surprised the curly headed younger man, wrapped his good arm around John feeling clothed erections grind together. He gasped shocked by the sudden spiral of pleasure that course through him. He moved his hips again testing. The feeling came again, stronger more intense. Beneath him John arched his hips, grinding again. Fisting his hand in that short hair he pulled him down kissing him again. Panting and moaning, feelings overriding any other thought the man who based himself in logic, was beyond comprehension.

John was lost in the younger man, his smell, his touch, acres of pale skin begging to be touched. He felt Sherlock shudder suddenly, "John!" he cried out, in passion and fear as his shorts grew suddenly wet. "Damit," John grunted gritting his teeth, for all his genius and knowledge that innocent response to his touch was his undoing. He pulled him close, ruining his own underwear.

They where silent then, almost lounging in the after glow, both trying to come to terms with what had just happened. "Sherlock," he began looking onto those intelligent eyes, he opened his mouth ready to pour his heart out. When the sudden blare of the consulting detective's phone stopped him, they looked at one another. John heaving a sigh smiled at him, "You need to get that yeah?" he gave him a quick kiss and he scrambled into the living room grabbing the phone. "Find him Lestrade?" Sherlock spoke briskly watching John, gingerly gathering his cloths. "Right we'll be there." Hanging up he looked to John, "There's another." The solider looked grim, "You insist on going…" Sherlock said nothing, they stood face to face, neither moving an inch, he knew too well that look. "Alright but let me change."

-#-#-#-

"Did we call in the cavalry?" Anderson yelled at them as they passed by, Captain John Watson took no heed. His head on a swivel the pair approached Lestrade standing warily over the corpse of another poor man. "You look ready for a fight John," the DI eyed him up and down, his statement truer then he knew. John was in full fatigues, including his flack jacket. His beret was perched neatly atop his head. "Not taking any chances this time," he said absently, as Sherlock began to move across the body. John was scanning out potential sniper points, attack points… darkness had set in and the new body was on the shore of the Thames further out then the others. "He'd getting sloppy in a hurry, this body is only half finished the embalming process." The detective stated matter-of-factly, Lestrade nodded consulting his notes. "We're checking into the local mortuaries see if anyone has been missing bodies, but so far all have been accounted for." The curly headed man frowned, his mind clicking into a higher gear. He was eager to be done with this case and be alone with John again, to kiss him again. Especially when he was looking so dashing, apparently Sherlock had a thing for a man in uniform.

"Really? You'd think they would notice a missing dead person…or at least the family would…" John said absently, boots poking at rocks wondering if the would be killer would plant more IED's. "You certainly have your moments John," Sherlock grinned at him, "True…" he mumbled squatting to look at something suspicious. Sherlock was already on the phone, fingers flying. Finished his inspection John came to stand beside Lestrade, falling into parade rest, his hands tucked into his bullet proof vest, a habit picked up in combat on cold nights. "He's in a good mood for someone trying to kill him," Lestrade commented, John snorted, "When is someone not trying to kill him."

"They where already buried," he crowed triumphant, he turned looking smug, "The other bodies where already buried, he took them en route to burial that's why no one is missing them." Sherlock began to pace moving away from the body, "This one though, only half completed. So someone is going to be missing him. Getting sloppy, escalating. The others where careful, meticulous…something has changed, the timeline sped up…" John who'd been listening to him as he was suddenly on high alert, senses honed in combat where screaming at him. Something was off, sharp blue eyes scanned left and right he was going to try again. But how? Some creative new method? Or was he going to go old school?

A red bead took aim on Sherlock then, a far too familiar sight for John's likening. Adrenaline flooded his system, it wasn't a conscious thought every fibre of his being screamed out to protect Sherlock. He was in front of him in an instant, the sharp ping of a ricochet followed by the thunk of it hitting him square in the chest. His breath left him in a whoosh, and something in his chest gave a sickening crack as he fell too the ground.

Utter chaos followed.

Sherlock was at his side, worried hands where on his chest checking, Lestrade was yelling to his men to find that shooter before someone else was hurt before kneeling beside John, "Are you ok?" Sherlock asked worried, Lestrade seemed to take exception yelling at the detective. "Of course he isn't you git he was just shot!" If John's chest hadn't been throbbing he would have laughed at the lunacy of all this. Run over and shot in one day. He groaned sitting up, before Sherlock could retort, "I'm fine, not the first time I've been shot, probably not the last…" he winced feeling the now mashed bullet in his vest. Lucky for him it wasn't a head shot, clearly the man was an amateur aiming for centre mass. He stood slowly, defiantly busted those abused ribs. "You're a masochist mate," Greg said sounding relieved to see the solider upright. He hadn't seen someone get shot in the chest like that up close, it had been unnerving.

"Right Lestrade, time for you to do what it is you do and go catch him." The Detective Inspector, frowned, "And just how do you suppose I go about that?" His phone dinged, "I sent you his computer IEP, trace it, and you have your man." He turned in a swirl of jacket, striding into the night, John following at a more sedate, painful pace.

-#-#-#-

"Just let me rest here a moment," John wheezed, gingerly settling on the couch. Sherlock had helped him strip to the waist, now a sporting another large ugly bruise from the bullet impact; he hurt everywhere. Taking shallow breaths, he watched amused as the man tried to administer to him still one handed. "Not really much you can do for busted ribs Shirly," he said softly, gently resting his hand on the man's leg. He was dead tired, all he wanted to do was sleep…and if Sherlock wanted to sleep with him, well that would be just dandy.

"We should wrap your chest Johnnie, see if we can stabilize it a bit." The solider grinned at the nickname, Sherlock was the only man on earth he would allow to call him that. Anyone else tried they would be picking up their teeth. "How long have you known who was trying to kill you?" John asked trying to distract him. Sherlock gave him a soft smile, as if he knew what his ploy was, humouring him anyway , "From the second body." He said nothing more, gently running long, cool fingers over John's battered chest.

"Alright I'll bite…do your thing," the younger man frowned, "It's not a 'thing' it's reason, deduction…" he stood moving to grab the laptop, "I came across this several months or so ago," he showed John the website, "Oh wow…" it was creepy photos of he and Sherlock, out walking, on crime scenes, newspaper clippings. Even experts from John's blogs, but it was all crazed ravings of a madman. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked softly and the other man shrugged, "No point really, some social inept loner, who fixated on me. Textbook stalker there was a good chance they would just move onto someone, or something else. Apparently it progressed, to the point where the fixation had to die."

John looked at him, "If you knew after the second body why go to the others after that?"

"I was curious how far he would push it…but I never wanted you to get hurt John." He looked at him pleading, "I forget sometimes that protective instinct of yours overrides everything else…" laughing softly he shut the laptop. "I guess we are a well matched pair then." He turned still smiling at the younger man, a hand gently taking the aristocratic fingers of his lover? Boyfriend? That episode in the bathroom seemed like some sort of pleasurable dream, brought on by his own hopeful fantasies. They sat like that for long moments, hand in hand, John wheezed quietly slowly as to not aggravate his broken ribs. The warmth of the room, and the man sitting beside him was making him drowsy. He closed his eyes, sighing, when lips pressed against his softly. He didn't open his eyes, if he opened them he would wake and Sherlock wouldn't be kissing him.

"You ok John," he whispered in his ear. Sherlock's mind had been spinning again, whirling and moving. When he looked at John though, looking battered and bruised, wounded from protecting, saving his life. Something that Sherlock had never really considered before. John was brave, trustworthy, and honest. Sherlock's had not really stood a chance. "Just fine, might have a little kip here…" He mumbled, sighing softly, he held tight to Sherlock's hand the other wrapped around his torso. Sherlock looked down at their joined hands, not wanting to move. He carefully cuddled close to him, listening to the steady breath of the other man, alive and warm beside him.

-#-#-#-

He wasn't sure what woke him, his instincts had him aware instantly, telling him not to move. Beside him Sherlock, head in his lap was awake as well. Someone else was in the flat. They where sloppy bugler, except he wasn't one, he was here for a purpose and John surmised it was to try and kill Sherlock... again. A glint of moonlight caught a knife clutched in his hand. That was it John was not getting stabbed as well.

He waited until the assailant was a foot away, coiling he sprung into action he was up off the couch like a shot. There was a grunt from the other man as John's fist connected solidly with his face. His still booted foot lashed out stomping his knee to dust. There was a cry that time, and a sudden blubbering. The knife skidded across the floor and John kicked it further, as Sherlock turned on the light. He was surprised, and little disappointed. The man weeping on the floor, holding a bleeding nose was a short, fat, and completely nondescript. John almost felt let down, after facing down Morarty "Sherlock, give Lestrade a call tell him we got the guy," he turned back to the man on the floor, "Stop your wingining, tried to kill me three times today." He mumbled grabbing Kleenex he knelt down stanching the blood flow. He had defiantly busted his nose, he felt a perverse little smile cross his face. He wanted to punch his spotty face again.

Sherlock settled nearby on the couch with a flourish, "Case solved…"

It wasn't long before Lestade, and the entire crew showed up, "Looks like he hit a brick wall." John snorted, "He ran into my first, then his knee ran into my boot." Sherlock gave his own little snort. Donavon walked by the solider for the third time, tossing him a wink before she disappeared out of the flat. Sherlock caught the motion looking from her, to the half naked John standing cross armed, at parade rest talking to Lestrade. She wasn't the only one sending looks at the well muscled, battered looking solider, others where. A wave of bitter jealously rolled through his belly. He wanted these people out now, and John completely to himself.

"Right, we got it from here, thanks guys we'll be in touch." They where gone then, silence filling the flat. "Well that turned into an eventful evening…" Sherlock mused hand moving to undo the buttons on his shirt. "Need a hand?" John asked softly moving forward to help, fingers deftly undoing the buttons. "I didn't like the way they looked at you." Sherlock burst out in anger. Blue eyes blinked in confusion, "Who?" he gestured over his shoulder, "Those, them…the yard." He was agitated, worked up. "Hey now, don't care what they're doing, just care about you," he eased the shirt over his sore shoulder, before moving to undo dress pants. There was that sudden tension again, Sherlock waiting for John to look up again pressing a kiss to slightly chapped lips.

He was a fast learner. He pulled the detective close, Sherlock winced as it jarred his healing shoulder. "Sorry," John mumbled as they kissed again. Hands wandering John having already stripped to his briefs felt long arms pull him close, only to have him gasp in pain this time. "Sorry," Sherlock mumbled, John laughed then pulling him close gingerly for a chaste kiss. "Think we'll be limited to PG Shirley," he whispered. "Spend the night with me?" Sherlock gripped his hand tightly, John smiled, a rare genuine smile that dimpled his cheeks, and made Sherlock's insides do flip flops. He followed him into the cluttered room, John had rarely been in here but the bed was large, and plush looking. Sherlock had his little peculiarities, and a ridiculously expensive sheets that where butter soft was one of them.

They settled then looking at each other on their sides, inches apart. It was someone how more intimate this moment. then anything John could think of. He laid a well worn hand on Sherlock's, watching the contrast between the two. The consulting detective entwined their fingers, also looking. John could hear the others heart thumping loudly, worried he was scared he gently kissed their joined hands. "We'll take it slow yeah?" He whispered pulling the lanky man closer, mindful of their injuries, they settled curled together. Drifting off in each others arms.


	6. Past, Present, and Future

Author's Note: Here it is, the last chapter and steamy man-man loving headed your way. I have started another Sherlock story…just a glutton for punishment I guess. Be on the look out though for the new one, called 'Picture Perfect' pretty clever if I do say so myself. For now enjoy the conclusion, and the whole unnecessary sex scene.

I'll Wait for You

Case 06 – Past, Present, and Future

1 Month Later…

"John on the left!" he yelled heading right, they raced through the dreary London night, suspect in their sights. The case had not been boring. A blackmailing ring, an affluent client, and a candle burning at both ends. He rounded the corner loosing him, cursing roundly, he spun then mind racing for possible alternate routes. When he heard the shot. His breath caught, "John…" he whispered, rushing head long after the sound.

He found them in a nearby ally, the solider was kneeling confidently on the blackmailers back, a knee to the spine. Sherlock approached quirking a lip, the man looked like raw hamburger, "What happened?" he asked already calling Lestrade, "He shot me…then ran into my fist, repeatedly," The lanky man was chuckling when he gave Detective Inspector their location.

An instant later they where surrounded, the yard leading the man away in cuffs. "Well done boys, bit excessive John…" snorting the solider was shrugging out of his coat moving to stand in the light of the ally. He inspected his arm, "Damnit!" he hissed, startling Lestrade and Sherlock, they both hurried over, blood was soaking though his jumper. "John!" he cried reaching out, "I liked this jumper!" he gritted out. Grey eyes blinked, as the tall man sniggered, Lestrade was gobsmacked. The doctor stomped over to the ambulance pulling off his jumper as he went, he stepped into the back and began rifling through the equipment.

Ten minutes later he had seven neat little stitches in his arm, cleaned, bandage it was a graze but furrowed it enough to bleed like all hell. Sighing he joined the others, Sherlock was in all his glory explaining how he cleverly lured the blackmailer into his own web of deceit. John smiled watching him pace and rant, his mind drifting, remembering, had it been a whole month since that night? Despite his near death, and injuries it had brought them together. There relationship had changed evolved, and John was learning that Sherlock, did indeed have a heart. One that was very delicate, and fragile. He had hid it away from the world, lest he be hurt. He'd also learned Sherlock was somewhat of a romantic. Or he'd been reading, and watching to many relationship movies. John was still smiling over a particular incident.

"_John?" the solider hummed from his chair, they where between cases, at the moment the most dangerous time. It gave Sherlock time to run is genius over something else, which mostly concerned his budding relationship with John. Having spent the day seeing to mundane everyday cases in the surgery the doctor was relaxing in his chair reading the paper. Waiting for the tirade about boredom that was imminent. The silence stretched on, John curious looked over his paper surprised at what he was looking at. Sherlock stood holding what looked like a dozen dead roses in his hand. He was wearing one of John's shirts, it was too wide and too short for him, over his own striped PJ pants. His light blue robe hung askew and he was looking at him with a look that on anyone else would appear bashful. _

"_Sherlock?" he asked, the blushing man looked down, "Ummm it's our one week anniversary…" he said softly, John almost laughed, only years of training prevented him from even cracking a smile. He stood coming towards the man, it was astounding that he could be so innocent. John accepted the flowers, gravely, "They are black roses you know, well there's no such thing as black roses, they are just very dark red or purple and they put them in water mixed with ink to make them darker. They don't occur naturally, very hard to find, and when you do they are the most beautiful I think. Different and unique." The words tumbled out tripping over themselves, coming out tangled and muttered, yet so very sweet. John felt like a heel, one week anniversary's where high school…but he had to remember Sherlock had no experience with this. As was evident for his black roses…his twist on traditional red roses. _

_He pulled him close, pressing a kiss to worried lips. An action that he returned eagerly, his kissing was much improved, they hadn't clacked teeth in a long time. They parted long sensuous moments later. "Does this mean we are a couple? In a relationship?" Sherlock asked tentively, John smiled, "I'm sorry I didn't get you anything." Sherlock gave him a sweet smile, "You already did."_

Sherlock was winding down point proven, looking smug and self-satisfied, he turned to John sending him a quick wink before turning back to Lestrade. Case closed.

The ride back to Baker Street was comfortably silent, John sighed looking down at his jumper. Touching the tear through it, "Why that one? Why is it your favourite?" Sherlock as curious, John raised a surprised brow, "You mean you haven't deduced?' the other man shrugged, it hadn't really registered it wasn't importation information, it was one he wore more often then others and it was an especially hideous one. "You bought it for me for Christmas." He blinked looking down, he vaguely remembered Ms. Hudson reminding him he should get his friend something he had grabbed the first one he'd seen in the proper size. Now felt like an ass, he hadn't put any thought into it.

Quietly he followed John up to the flat, watching as the man tossed his jumper aside, followed by his blood stained t-shirt. As he checked his bandage, as Sherlock rolled an approving eye across the compact man's naked torso. He moved around the flat like a cat, all muscles and sinew. He was pulled out of his reverie, when a wrapped package appeared before his eyes. It was followed by a soft kiss on his cheek, "Happy one month," John whispered moving to sit on the couch. Sherlock joined him smiling at his boyfriend. He had figured the one week thing had maybe been too much, but he couldn't help feeling giddy at the gift. He opened the package, smiling softly as the crimson scarf fell to his lap. "Thank you John," he whispered leaning over to kiss him. John had been waiting for him, capturing his lips effortlessly.

Long slow kisses seemed to take on something more, a growing heat flared one that John had been trying to ruthlessly stamp out in difference to Sherlock's lack of experience. In the month following their new relationship they had slept together in the same bed every night. It was a novel way to get Sherlock to at least lie down, he enjoyed being close to John, and the solider has a suspicion he loved to cuddle. A lifetime spent at being at arms length from everyone, he was starved for the most basic of affection.

Quick fingers had Sherlock's dress shirt off, moving lower working the fastening of his dress pants. Eager hips lifted, even as long fingers where tugging off John's jeans. They never broke contact, stripped to their briefs and boxers respectively they let fingers roam and play, touching…teasing. "Bedroom," Sherlock breathed as John moved to bite pale flesh of his neck leaving barely noticeable love bites along the creamy expanse. The solider grinning against his lovers neck, in one fluid movement he wrapped his arms around the detective standing with little strain. Gasping the lanky man wrapped his legs around his waist on instinct, "John!" he cried worried he was too heavy, but strangely aroused at being so easily manhandled. Easy strides had them in the bedroom, dumping him onto the rumpled sheets and following after. Hips grinding, and he moved across the narrow chest. Playing with pert pink nipples before lower across defined abs.

Moaning Sherlock buried long fingers in short blonde hair, as John tugged his boxers off, kissing the head of his erection. Teasing him, taunting him before swallowing him whole. He arched off the bed, everything in his body taught and singing his mind deliciously devoid of thought. John was a thoughtful, through lover, but tonight Sherlock wanted to push him past the breaking point. He knew the solider was worried about pushing to far but Sherlock was ready, ready to see what it was that seemed to make good people do terrible things. He'd seen the porn, read the stories…fantasized over and over what it would be like with John. Waiting, worrying, anticipating, and tonight he was going to fulfill his fantasy.

He gasped again, John knew how to play him, he mouth was magic and it was pushing him closer, not tonight though. Long fingers pulled his hair, pulling him up he kissed him. Tasting himself on those lips, musky and bitter. He pulled away pressing his lips to John's ear, "I want you…" he whispered, trying to be like the men he'd seen in those movies he'd watched. Coy, seductive, and experienced…he felt like he came off nervous and naïve. John shuddered, his control was barely held in check. He wanted this man, like he had never wanted anything else in his life.

He closed his eyes briefly trying to reign in his lust, Sherlock was inexperienced after all. When he reopen them the lanky man had a bottle of lube in hand. "Oh my god…" he puffed out all but ripping his own underwear off, John had the bottle in hand, harshly demanding that Sherlock give everything to him. Callused fingers where pressing against him gently massaging, Sherlock tried to relax, remembering what he had read. John's kisses where do wonders distracting him, as fingers where slide inside him pressing, pushing, stretching. It was an odd feeling, not wholly uncomfortable. Just odd. This blunt fingers where scissoring, and Sherlock was loosing his mind.

John felt the heat around his probing digits, the body beneath him trembling, and his own painfully hard arousal begging for release. He withdrew his fingers, preparing himself he looked into gray eyes, "You sure?" he nodded hiding his face against John's collar bone, bracing himself as something much larger and thicker then fingers was pressing into him. He held John tight as he slowly slid past the ring of muscle. The pain was sudden and sharp, burning, he cried out involuntarily. John stilled instantly, pulling him close kissing where ever he could, whispering nonsensical things.

The pain was fading, replaced with a feeling of fullness, he gave his hips and experimental twist. "Ok?" John sounded strained, and Sherlock nodded, he moved forward again inch by inch until he was fully inside. "Oh god…" he whispered, trying to stay still, Sherlock panted it was so different, so new, the sensations where running though him. He wanted to move. John was braced above him, breathing erratically his eyes closed tightly. Gray eyes watched intently as he rolled his hips. "Don't…" he said weakly, Sherlock rolled them again, watching his control snap.

"Oh god Sherlock," He began moving his hips, slowly at first but gaining speed, long legs looped around his waist as he pushed forward. Sherlock moaned John's name, gasping and crying. John was inside him, he could feel every inch of him moving, and pulsing, but something was unattainable. Just out of his reach. John moved faster, watching the pleasure and pain cross his lovers face. Gritting his teeth he paused, grabbing Sherlock close he pulled him upright into his lap changing the angle, and hitting something that made his lover cry out in pure pleasure.

"Oh God John!" he cried out as he began riding with abandon, "John…John…" his mantra was whispered in his ear. Stars where dancing behind his eyes, as he clung to John controlling the pace, every movement and oh god he was hitting something so deliciously pleasant inside him. The tightness surrounding him was forcing him closer, Sherlock's moans and cries as he slid in and out of that sleek body holding him tight. Every lonely late night fantasy was being played out and reality was so much better. "Ahhh!" Sherlock cried out a sudden wetness spilling across John's stomach. That tight heat got tighter, and John gave his own soft cry "Sherlock," he breathed spilling deep inside the other man.

They froze like that, locked together so intimately, John ran fingers through curly hair. Basking in the haze of after glow, "You ok?" he asked his lover softly, Sherlock was suddenly embarrassed, an odd feeling for him. He was suddenly worried he hadn't been any good, that his inexperience had ruined what he knew he would hold in memory forever. A soft kiss was pressed against his temple, as callused fingers tipped his chin up. Blues stared into gray, "I love you, you know…" John said very matter of fact without fear or trepidation. His heart wanted what it wanted. Sherlock felt like he'd been hit by a truck, he didn't know what to say all these feeling where to new, to fresh.

They disentangled then, cleaned, they curled together in bed, Sherlock still strangely silent. His mind in turmoil did he love John? Was it just baser emotion then that of lust? "Stop," the blonde man muttered yawning, "Stop what?" he asked finally, "Stop thinking, your thinking too much about what I said. I said what I said because I needed to, and you needed to hear it." He said simply, eyes closing, suddenly blissfully sleepy in the warm cocoon of blankets. Sherlock closed suddenly tired eyes as well, perhaps John had the right idea.

In the time to come, their bond would be tested, pushed past the breaking point. That in between however, would make them. Forging a connection between them that even death would not break. For now though, they headed down the stair and out into the London night, a crime scene waiting, and a puzzle to solve. John watched over his love, this man who made the impossible probable, he smiled to himself as grey eyes gleaming with a fevered light headed off on the chase. _I'll wait for you Sherlock… _his heart cried out as he followed close behind, until then Captain John Watson would follow him to hell and back.

End.


End file.
